The First
by myBlueprints
Summary: 5 shots (light Ichabod and Abbie) involving some vague(ish) Katrina awkwardness. Mostly light but close to intimate (ish) of the non-sexual type.
1. Chapter 1

The first time he realises that he wants to kiss her, his hands are gripping the toilet bowl so hard, he nearly can't feel them. His face is dripping sweat, and he can't control what is coming out of his mouth. He feels terribly hot, too hot for words, and he's shaking more than a fraction.

He wasn't expecting to see her today, not on a Sunday. Sundays are sort of peaceful days for the two of them, and since Katrina, Abbie pointedly made it a point not to show up at the cabin.

'Abbie...' he moans more than pronounces her name. His head can only stay out of the toilet bowl long enough to see the look of worry on her face, before he's diving it back into the bowl again. His head is spinning slightly, keeping it in the toilet bowl eases the discomfort.

'Katrina said you were bad, but I didn't think it was this bad.' She sounds very calm about the 'badness' of his condition, something he chooses not to try and understand. He wonders instead if Katrina informed her about his current state of illness. He hears her feet shuffling across the floor and notes that she's not wearing her usual heeled boots.

'Crane?' she's using that tone that she uses when she wants him to pay attention. He struggles greatly in bringing up his head from its sanctuary. Her face is full of concern for him, and if he isn't mistaken, she appears to be in discomfort as well. So very worried she looks, with her eyes constricted in concern and her lips apart.

'Do you want me to take you to a doctor?'

'No,' he protests weakly, and before he can say anymore, he feels the familiar pattern of vomiting rising from his stomach. Speedily, he sticks his head into the bowl again, the content of his stomach coming out of his mouth and into the bowl in a gush. It takes everything from him. He's always hated throwing up, it takes so much energy with it.

'Are you sure?' she presses gently. He keeps his head in a little longer, just to make certain that he's done for now.

'You know very well,' he says after he's recovered some, 'I cannot stand hospitals.'

'Plus Katrina's a nurse right?' she takes the thought right from his head. He sees no need to visit a hospital when Katrina has knowledge on the art of healing. And she's a witch. He groans lightly.

'Food poisoning can be very bad Crane,' she's warning him, tactfully voicing that she doubts Katrina can do much for him. He doesn't know about that, but he knows that Katrina is drawing up a concoction of some sort for him; he's silently praying that it will work.

'I shall be fine,' he says, though he's not too believing of it at the moment. He has known pains worse than this, and yet, this is the most terrible he's ever felt. So helpless, incapable of doing anything for himself and defeated.

'You don't look fine Crane, I'm actually very worried about you.' He hears the authenticity in her voice, he also hears her move closer to him and his toilet bowl.

'Look, I know it's just food poisoning and Katrina's here...'

There's no denying that she's afraid to say whatever else she's thinking, because even without seeing her face, he can read her, he can tell her thoughts.

Slowly, he raises his head from the bowl, 'But?' His eyes search her face. Abbie involuntarily forms a small amused smile around the corners of her mouth, only for a second, and then it disappears. She takes one last step, which brings her right to the bowl. He watches her as she sinks to her knees opposite him.

'But,' one of her hands reaches out above his shoulder, and he thinks she's reaching out to touch him, but she doesn't, 'you've got barf in your beard, and it's really disgusting.'

He can't help smiling, neither can he help one of his hands letting go of the toilet to touch her arm. She smiles back at him, one of those smiles that are private between them, a smile of understanding with no need of any words.

'Here, I'll get it for you,' she tells him. It only occurs to him now that she reached out to unroll toilet paper when he hears the rolling noise on his side.

He can imagine how silly he must look; perspiring profusely, remnants of his dinner stuck in his beard all the while clutching desperately to a toilet bowl and slumped on the floor like a child. But she's here, and she doesn't care, about any of it, she's willing to remain on the bathroom floor with him on her free day. He closes his eyes to silently thank someone for her presence (of course her presence doesn't make his illness more bearable, but she's here and that's more than enough for him). That's when he feels it. His eyes fly open.

Calmly, as though she's trained all her life for it, she wipes at his beard with the toilet paper. He's more stunned than anything else, he doesn't know what to think. Her face is calm, but her eyes bear the burden of care, he knows that care is for him. There's nothing more he wants than to lay his lips upon hers. The mess in his beard will get onto her chin, and most likely her lips, but he doesn't mind, he only wants to kiss her for being with him. For cleaning him up without the slightest look of the disgust she mentioned on her face, she looks completely at ease in doing this for him. How he wishes he could kiss her.

'There,' she announces, her eyes travelling to his, 'don't ever make me do that again. It's really yuck.'

'My apologies.'

'And take this,' she waves the paper she used in front of his face, 'since you're blocking the bowl and all.' With a grateful smile on his face, he does, allowing his fingers to linger over hers longer. She only smiles at him, and just like that, he's lost in the trance of her smile, the glow of her eyes and the richness of her lips. Perhaps her presence does help after all, because looking at her face allows him to forget that he's ill.

'Ichabod?'

As though caught in the act of stealing, he startles, looking away from Abbie. It's his wife at the door. Judging by the look on her face, he knows she didn't just arrive. His insides squirm, though not due to his illness.

'Katrina.'

Ever so slightly, to the point of being undetected, her eyes narrow at him, 'I have finished the brew,' she tells him, then turns to Abbie, 'Miss Mills could you help him up please? He has to drink the potion whilst in bed.'

Abbie nods, and Katrina leaves immediately.

'Okay,' Abbie's face screws a little, 'that wasn't a tiny bit weird...Come on.' Ichabod makes a mental note to prepare an explain for Katrina if she ever asks for one.

'What?' he wants to know. Abbie is already up, holding up a hand for him. He takes it, and she pulls him up as much as she is able.

'I don't know,' she shrugs, 'it just felt weird when Katrina came in. It's nothing. Flush the toilet.'

So he wasn't the only one who sensed the awkwardness.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time he really wants to kiss her, his fingers are digging deep into the soft flesh of her tiny foot. He imagines the rest of her must be this soft.

They are exhausted and the first thing she does is fall into the first of the three majestic looking chairs in the back of the room they do their work in.

'How many years of this do we have left?' she asks. It's like two years ago when they defeated the Sandman, the same exhaustion, they same feeling, only a different day. Plus Katrina. Katrina's part of their team now, and she helps where she can.

'Don't!' she shouts in objection when he attempts to take the next chair, Ichabod stares at her. He doesn't understand why he can't take a seat when she's comfortably settled.

'That's for my feet,' Abbie tells him, then she turns in the chair and swings her legs over to the middle chair, 'Sit in the last one.'

Strangely, had she not suggested that, he would've sat in the last chair, but now that she's said it, all he wants is to get under her skin. As though she hasn't spoken, he carefully lifts her legs from the arms of the first and middle chairs.

'Hey!' Abbie's surprised, 'What are you doing?'

Ichabod ignores her at first, only placing her feet on the floor, and taking a seat in the chair, 'I'm sitting,' he says with a smug smile. Abbie's eyes narrow.

'Fine, sit,' she says, allowing him a little time to settle before she lifts her legs once again and returns them to their former position. Only slightly (so that he doesn't appear as disbelieving as he feels), his mouth opens.

It's Abbie's turn to smile smugly, 'What?'

'Nothing.' Well, he did start the thing that's happening now, so he has no right to complain. He decides instead to allow his body a little rest until they have to go home. Very gently, he leans back into the chair, savouring the moment of peace he has.

'Crane?'

'Hmm?' What has he done now?

'Remember the time we went to New York...'

Of course, how could he possibly forget such a place, so different from the New York he knew. He only nods, refusing to open his eyes.

'I think I remember you saying that you were indebted to me?' She's asking, but he knows she's really saying it as a statement. He can't keep his eyes shut after that, she wants something. She has a look on her face that spells, now-would-be-the-perfect-time-to-repay-me.

'What would you like me to do for you?'

'Take off my boots,' she wiggles her feet before him, 'My feet are dead sore.'

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that, definitely not that. He's only ever removed the shoes of one woman before, Katrina, and he's always considered it a private intimate thing to do for another. However, this century (Abbie) has taught him that things that were considered sacred back in his time, are far too flexible now. He only wonders if Katrina will understand that if she happens to walk in on him removing Abbie's boots.

'Come on Crane,' Abbie urges, 'undress my feet. Please.' The last word is added solely for mocking purposes, he appreciates it all the same for an unknown reason. Her face as playful as that of a child, he cannot resist caving to her request.

'It is highly inappropriate...in my time for example...' he begins on one foot, one hand holding firmly on the heel of the boot, while the other is fasten above her ankle.

'Don't give me that,' Abbie says, 'I knew you less than a week when you saw me in a bra.' True, he will never forget that day (due mostly to the scorpion sting), but those had been different circumstances. Life and death. Unlike now.

'Plus it's the 21st century, nobody is that ancient anymore.'

'I apparently still am,' he scowls lightly, finally managing to pull the boot off her foot. He moves onto the next foot.

'Yeah,' she nods, 'but you're like ancient yourself so...no surprise there.' He laughs, and she joins him. They look at each other and continue laughing. He cherishes the moment immensely, it's highly improbable that he's had such a moment with anyone in his life. With someone who gets him, gets under his skin, and awes him all at once. He doesn't want the moment to end.

He manages to pull his gaze away from her, along with the other boot. Just as the other, the last boot lands in the chair he's in. Now, only his hand is left touching her sock-covered foot. Without meaning to, his fingers press into the sole of her foot. A moan escapes from her mouth. Definitely of pleasure, he's pleased.

'Do that again.' For once, she's requesting, not ordering him to do it, the sound of her voice says it all. Now, they're just crossing borders, he reasons within himself, massaging of feet is completely crossing boundaries. But even as he reasons, he can already hear her say something about the various times she's done yoga in front of him.

He decides to do her the honour. More carefully than he would've done in the past, he presses his fingers into the softness of her flesh, even through the sock, he can feel the tenderness of her foot.

'Wow,' Abbie exhales as she leans her head back, her eyes closing to relish the feeling, 'I will literally pay you to do that every time my feet are sore.' He wants to deliver his famous 'I would happily accept' line, but he's currently mesmerised by the look on her face. He's familiar with the look, it's the same she wears when she's reliving a cherished event in her head. He'd give anything to know what she's thinking, but then he realises, she's not thinking at all, she's enjoying what he's doing to her.

Imagine the look she would have if I kissed her right now, he thinks unabashedly. And suddenly, honestly, he really wants to kiss her. He wants to capture her lips between his with everything he's got. It's quite a powerful desire that he has, and if it weren't for the chair separating them, he would surely lean over and kiss her.

'Why'd you stop?'

What? He stopped? He stopped what? 'Pardon?' he's a little more than lost.

'Why'd you stop doing that thing to my foot?'

'I...' He has no idea what to say, he didn't realise he'd stopped the massage. Her face has changed though, it's no longer dreamy and kissable, it's bothered. What a shame. She looks in the direction of the door, he follows her gaze.

Nick Hawley, Jenny and Katrina stand a little way from them, 'Did we interrupt something?' It's Jenny who asks, it's always Jenny.

Abbie and Ichabod look at each other, smiles of embarrassment threatening to show on both their faces. He doesn't understand why he feels embarrassed. It must be that Katrina is eyeing them suspiciously. And so is Jenny, but he doesn't mind when it comes from her.

'No,' Ichabod answers, 'you didn't interrupt anything.' Just that he really thought of kissing Abbie. Nothing else.


	3. Chapter 3

The first time he nearly kisses her, demon number three hundred has happened and he's had too much to drink. Katrina's away with Jenny, and they have the cabin to themselves.

'Serves you right,' she slumps into the couch next to him. She's a little too close and her normally wonderful scent is making him queasy. 'Three bottles of rum really?!'

It's not entirely his fault, he protests in his mind, she's partly to blame. Had she stayed and celebrated with him, she could've prevented him from overindulging and passing out on the floor of his home.

'Would you kindly not shout please?' It's as though all his senses have come to life in the past two hours, he can hear the tiniest things, he's acutely aware of every smell, and his ears have grown keener. He curls further into the arm of the couch, trying to create some distance between him and her shouting.

'I'm not shouting!' she says close to his hear. He's pretty certain that she has really shouted that part on purpose to emphasise that he really shouldn't have started on that second bottle of rum.

'Abigail please,' he places his hands over his ears, his eyes shutting to embrace the pain, 'if you will continue to add to my existing after-effects, I would ask you to leave me in my punishment.' She laughs (too loudly for his throbbing head), before he feels her weight lifting off the couch. He's alarmed, he doesn't want her to leave, even if it means enduring all sorts of things from her end as well.

'Are you leaving?' he opens his eyes.

'No,' she continues to laugh, 'sorry to disappoint you.' He relaxes a fraction, but he still doesn't like that she stood up from the couch. If he had to choose, she'd come before his need for peace and quiet. There's just something about having her around when things are bad that he cannot explain.

'Could you get me a glass of water please?'

'Are you sure you don't want more rum?' she teases. She's clearly enjoying this, and he can't blame her. He's just glad she hasn't thought of taking a photograph as she does all the other times that he's compromised.

'Never again,' he tells her, meaning every word.

'Fine, I'll get you water,' she starts to leave when he takes hold of her wrist.

'And a wet cloth please, my head feels ready to burst.' He lets go, and she leaves. She leaves him thinking about the stupidity of his actions. What if today had its own demon to offer, how would he be able to help her in the state he's in. Surely he shall never repeat the events of last night again. He unfolds himself over the rest of the couch, his legs are far too long to be contained by the length of the couch, so he lets them dangle from the other end. His head, he rests on the arm, crossing his arms over his eyes. This day will certainly be a long one, he thinks, and definitely not one he will forget. It's not everyday that he's found sleeping on the floor by his partner and half carried to a couch, because he's too weak to do anything himself. Oh yes, he will never repeat that mistake again.

'Believe it or not, lying like that doesn't help nearly as much as sitting with your knees up.' He feels wetness on his forehead at the same time the words are spoken. The coolness from the cloth is welcome, he holds both his hands to it, only to find that she hasn't let go, it's curious that he can't feel the light pressure of her hand. He nonetheless places his hands atop hers.

'I prefer this way,' he tells her. He's half expecting that she will remove her hand from under his, but she doesn't, it pleases him.

'Suit yourself. Here's your water, I'm just wondering how you'll drink it.' His eyes snap open, because all of a sudden he has the suspicion that she will pour the water on his face.

'Why do I get the feeling that you will pour that on my face?'

'Because you're half drunk and imagining things,' she answers, 'Come on, sit up, you're not drinking this while you're like that.' Mostly for fear of the water landing on his, he gathers his legs and upper body to sit up. Immediately he misses her hand (that he couldn't feel before) on his forehead. Abbie comes around and settles next to him like she did earlier. She holds out the glass to his mouth as both his hands are keeping the wet cloth on his forehead.

'I found cold spaghetti in the fridge,' she says, 'and I know nothing cures a hangover better than cold food.' Abbie pushes the glass to his lips before he has the chance to protest that he doesn't feel like eating, much less cold food. The glass doesn't tip over into his mouth, Abbie moves closer.

'Tilt your head back a little or take the glass.' He does the first one, and she slants the glass so that the water pours into his open mouth. The flow is pleasant.

'That's enough,' she pulls the glass back.

'But,' he begins, 'I need to drink-'

'Trust me Crane,' Abbie says, bringing the glass to her lips, 'the best thing for you is not water. I'm telling you it's cold spaghetti, and it's in the fridge.' Tipping the glass, she drinks the rest of the water. Ichabod watches in disbelief, that she would be cruel as to deny him water, the very thing he needs to calm his bursting head.

'I wanted to drink that,' he frowns.

'Yeah? It's gone now,' she runs her tongue (he believes unconsciously) over her bottom lip. It's incredibly inviting, even for a man with a throbbing head. So much so that he finds himself leaning too close to her face. He's so close to her face that he only has to go a little way to kiss her. No one with such lips should be allowed to do such things in with their tongue company that is platonic (to an extent).

'And whose fault is that?' His breath must hit on her face, he realises.

Abbie shrugs, 'I told you, there's spaghetti in the fridge, I'll bring it.' She gets up, and the opportunity to kiss her is lost.


	4. Chapter 4

**This chapter is a little...I don't know how to say it really, it's just...it might be confusing and hard to follow. I'm sorry, this is the way it came out.**

The first time he discovers that he can kiss her, her small hand is in his much bigger one. He's very frustrated, because most of his time is spent with her, but it's Katrina he arrives home to. Even with their constant fighting it, injustice still exists.

Katrina is following close behind them as they rush to Abbie's car, muttering something about nothing that he cares not to really listen to at the moment. They're a long way from Sleepy Hollow, and Abbie's got a deep slash in the palm of her hand. Sometime during running to the car and dodging all sorts of things, her hand got injured. He didn't notice before.

'Are you able to drive?' The answer is most likely no, seeing as he has to open the door for her. She climbs in without giving him an answer. She's partly upset, and more frustrated, that much he knows, but the reason, he isn't too willing to guess.

'I'll be fine,' she answers quietly. A little too darkly for his liking, bitter even. He doesn't understand, he wants to, but he can't exactly ask her without further upsetting her, he knows her far too well. Refusing to go around to his side of the car is the only thing he can do until she gives in.

'Crane,' she drags his name, 'I'll be fine, I just need to fix this,' she gestures her bleeding hand.

'Let me,' he requests of her. Back in the war, when nurses were unavailable, he used to tend to himself, rather well might he add, mending her hand will be no problem for him. She isn't losing too much blood, that itself is a good sign. Abbie eyes him cautiously, a tell sign that she doesn't trust him.

'I'd rather Katrina did it.' At the mention of Katrina, he remembers her, surprised that he momentarily forgot that she had been behind them. Ichabod takes a step back to get a better view around the car. And there Katrina is, leaning against the back of the car, looking fagged.

'Katrina?' he calls.

His worry must show because she answers that she's fine, she just needs a moment to catch her breath. She also laughs a small laugh of exhaustion and triumph. He's glad she's okay, and he tells her.

'Is Miss Mills all right?' Katrina asks him. Even after three years, Katrina rarely calls Abbie by her first name.

'She will be,' he tells her, and can't think of anything else to say to Katrina. It's highly uncomfortable. There had been a time when sitting in silence was a big conversation between them; now, every word that isn't spoken between them only creates awkwardness.

'It's okay,' Katrina tells him when the silence has stretched on too much, 'I know you want to help her.' The sentence shouldn't make him feel anything, yet he feels it's a declaration of defeat from Katrina. It's as though she has pieced all the bits together. He has no idea what to say to her.

'Katrina...'

'Ichabod please,' it's less than a whisper, 'we'll talk about this later.' Because he has nothing else to say to her, he returns to Abbie. Her face is strangely sombre, she heard their exchange.

It's happened. In the middle of nowhere, it has happened. One minute they were all a team, keeping their secrets bottled inside of them, and the next, all three of them are as open as the wound in Abbie's hand, gushing out all their contents.

'Abbie?'

Silence follows, she says nothing, he says nothing, nobody is breaking eye contact. He never imagined they would get to this in actual life. It makes sense now, her mood, it's because of Katrina, she's just as frustrated as he is. Earlier, he'd chosen Katrina over her. But now she's learned that Katrina isn't the problem for him, she is.

'There's a medical kit in the glove box,' Abbie finally says. He gets it, opening it immediately. Without his asking, she holds out her injured hand, there's really not as much blood as he thought.

'Should I talk you through it?'

'I'll manage,' is all he says. And he does, he manages to clean out her wound, sterilize it and wrap it gently so as not to cause her discomfort. She doesn't say a word, which is new, she's never without comment. A lot has definitely changed in the last ten minutes, they can never go back from where they are now.

'I hope I haven't bandaged your hand too tightly.' He's done, but he keeps her hand in his, she doesn't pull it away either.

'It's fine, thank you. Would you drive though, I'll need stitches before I can drive.' She's avoiding his eyes, he can't blame her.

'If there's anything I can do-' he begins.

'There are many things you can do Crane,' she cuts him off, 'if you wanted.'

That's not what he was asking about, his question wasn't one for personal knowledge. All he wanted was to know if she needed help with anything else.

'Oh,' he fondles the bandage.

'Let go of my hand please, we need to go.' It takes six more seconds (and much reluctance from his part), but he lets go at last. Perhaps tomorrow will bring about new developments, but for now, all he has is the knowledge that if he wants to, there are many things he can do.


	5. Chapter 5

The first time he actually kisses her, it's year 4, day 72. It's long overdue and he's got a mixture of vinegar, olive oil and shampoo in his hair. He learns that purposely sinking into a pool of muck to keep hidden from the forces of evil is not such a good idea after all, his hair pays the price.

They drive to her house, because she knows the cabin doesn't have all she needs to clean herself out properly. She takes a bath first (ladies first, except when demons are involved) and ties her hair into a bun above her head. He would've thought that loose hair would dry faster, but apparently she wants to cook dinner, and she doesn't want wet hair getting in the way. He doesn't complain about it, he likes her hair up nearly as much as he does down.

They are long past the stage of tiptoeing around the fact that they love each other, because they know they do. It's not a secret anymore, even though neither of them has ever confessed it aloud. And he's contemplated kissing her countless times.

When he emerges from the bathroom into the kitchen, her face changes.

'You didn't wash your hair,' she says it as an observation.

'I did,' he tells her. He's not going to tell her that he's actually spent more time washing his hair than the rest of him, not if that's the conclusion she reaches when she looks at his hair.

'I can still see stuff in your hair,' she insists.

'I must've missed some areas.'

'You missed your whole head,' she attempts to keep from smiling, no doubt finding it funny that he has. There are times he feels like a child in her presence, needing to be told everything, even after so much time.

'Tell you what, you help me cut these carrots, and I'll help get the icky stuff out of your hair.'

'Fair enough,' he steps forward, holding out his hand, 'shall we seal this accord?'

Abbie takes his hand with a smile, 'Yes.' Right then, he wants to kiss her, do the one thing he's wanted for so long, but never got it right. He doesn't kiss her. Nor does he in the ten times that present themselves as they slice and dice next to each other, making jokes, passing off suggestive comments.

It's later, when she has him seated on a stool in her bathroom, his head thrown back into the sink that he kisses her.

'Can you feel that?'

Other than her fingers gently massaging his scalp, he has no idea what he's supposed to be feeling. Though to be honest, he's not confident he would be able to feel anything, not when her fingertips are performing enticing movements on his head. It's truly a gift that she possess.

'Feel what?'

'I'm doing this thing...my mother used to do it when she was washing my hair, she'd always ask me if I could feel what she was doing, I never could...so if you can't feel it, then I'm doing it right.'

'What are you doing?' he wants to know, only to indulge her though, he's perfectly fine with whatever he can feel her doing.

Her fingers leave his head, and immediately he notices the absence, he opens his eyes. Abbie is standing in front of him now, but he's still leaning back into the sink, he adjusts that.

'I can't really tell you without showing you,' she answers.

'So show me,' he asks.

Abbie makes a face at him, 'Ask nicely, I mean these are my family secrets I'm sharing here...and for free.'

'But you want to show me,' he says, knowing full well that she does. Her eyebrows raise, then she smiles, 'I did, but now you've turned into cocky Crane, and I don't like him.'

He's learnt long ago, that the things she says about him, and the things that she feels, are complete opposites, that's how he knows she's teasing right now.

'You absolutely love cocky Crane,' he provokes for an inevitable response. At first she just stands there staring at him, appearing to be thinking of what next she would say, but then she steps backwards, completely out of his reach. He doesn't understand.

'Maybe,' she inclines her head to the side, 'or maybe he's really annoying and I can't stand him.' She says it with such pronunciation that he doesn't believe there's ever been a moment that he's wanted to prove her wrong. It's not that she's said that she can't stand him, it's that she's looking at him so fiercely, her eyes an excited pool for being able to get under his skin without trying. It's too much for him, he can't have Abbie enjoying herself and not be a part of it.

He decides to cave, 'Please show me Abigail.' It takes one smile from her, that's it, and he's up from the stool (hair long forgotten). One step forward, and he's directly pressed into her, her eyes look up at him in confusion. He has to bend his head and place his hand under her chin to bring their lips close together.

His lips close over hers, gently at first, but after sensing the change in her body, he deepens his kiss, giving in completely to the will of his desire.

'Wow,' she breathes, closing her eyes. She pushes his face away from hers to create breathing room for herself, 'Um...'

'Not the right time?' Because it could be nothing else, he's that certain. Abbie shakes her head, bringing her hands to cover the mouth.

'Then what is it?' surely his kissing skill has not diminished.

'Nothing,' she says through her hands, 'I was just wondering if you wanted to wash your hair out in the shower.'


End file.
